Don't Think About It
by Lina Trinch
Summary: Reality is what you make it. Reality is relative. I think, therefore I am. What you think is what you know. What you know is what is real. Oneshot. Holix.


**I'm doing this as an exercise for myself. I'm bored today, so I figured that I'd write whatever popped in my head that was Holix. The reason I'm not working on the new chapter of something is because I want to do the whole... what do you call it... natural inspiration? Yeah, that. I don't know where this is going or how it's going to start. Most likely, it's going to be all vague and deep like **_**Blur**_** or **_**Tide**_**.**

**Let's begin, shall we? These kinds of fics are kind of hard to do. The trick is to not think (too much) about it.**

**o0o**

_Don't think about it_, he told himself, _Reality is what you make it. The senses cannot know what they know unless you have the knowledge to understand it. If you don't, then you don't. So, it stands to reason, just don't think about it._

He could almost hear his feet echo against the white walls, but he didn't. He could almost see her smile beaming to him, but he didn't. He could almost feel regret and pride, but he didn't.

Were there voices? Were there sounds? Noises? Was it singing? A melody?

Was it too bright or too dark? Was he uncomfortable or in bliss?

Did something happen? Was there even a past to look to or a future to see? Was there even a present or did he just not exist?

_I think, therefore I am._

Was he thinking or was it just playing back to him on a continuous loop?

_I _think_, therefore I _am_._

Was he alive? What was he? A man. He was a man. He _is _a man.

What qualifies someone as a man? Human. Male. Pride. Sorrow. Compassion. Joy. There were too many qualities. Could he really be all those things?

_Don't think about it_, he scolded.

Why? Why was it so important to not think? If he didn't, then he wasn't real, so he had to in order to exist.

_Reality is what you make it. Reality is relative._

Could one exist without thought? No. Could one change their thoughts? Yes. What you think is what you know. What you know is what is real.

What did he know? What did he think? He is a man, apparently filled with pride, sorrow, compassion, and whatever else qualifies as a man. What else does he know? He is a man that exists. He is real.

That has to be a good start, right? If he exists, then he must have a vessel. A body. That's right, he's human. He does have a body.

_The senses cannot know what they know unless you have the knowledge to understand it._

He was working on knowledge. He'd get back to that later, if a future happened to exist as well. For now, the senses. What are they?

Electrical signals sent through the body in order to tell you what is there and what is not. Right. Sight. Touch. Taste. Scent. Sound.

Let's start with sight. What does he see? Whether it's bright or dark, he unfortunately can't tell. Beyond that, flashes of color. Memories? Maybe. Alright, touch. He's cold or warm. Either way, he's numb. Taste. Copper. Like metal, but salty, too. It's thick. Scent. Alcohol? Dirt? Mostly, just more copper. It's hard to smell. Sound. Voices or songs? Melodies or maybe screams? He can't seperate reality from memory. Perhaps they're both real. Perhaps they're both happening.

_Just don't think about it._

He must. He must exist. He needs to. He wants to.

Another touch. Something new. Felt like cold air just ran up his arm and over a side of his face. Something feels hollow. Empty. His center. His chest. His stomach. It's gone. The chest cavity; ribs, breast plate; they're falling in, trying to fill the gap. His eyes sting. It's not a touch, but a _feeling_. Something he has unconciously caused within himself, within what is him. It hurts. It hurts a lot. It won't go away.

It's an emotion. What are they? Love. Hate. Fear. Happiness. Sorrow. Compassion. Joy... No. These are qualities of a man. Emotion's are qualities of a man. He feels these things and he thinks these things, so he must exist. So, what was he feeling right now? Fear? Sorrow? Hate? Love? Sorrow towered over the others. Why was he feeling this way?

_Don't think about it._

No. He will. Why was he hurting? He needed to know.

He felt as if that hole was sucking him in. If he knew why, he could fight against it. He could stop it.

The pain is in the chest and stomach. It feels like nothing's there. Like things are missing. Like everything's gone. His eyes don't sting anymore. He feels like he's a part of the pain. He is in the sorrow. He is the sorrow.

There's a pounding in his chest. His heart. It's still there. Every beat, every bass, just hurts more. It feels like it's trying to tell him why he feels this way. It's trying to tell him what's wrong. It's a thumping reminder.

_Don't think about it._

It means he's alive. It means things are working. It means he's a man. It means he feels sorrow and hatred and love and fear and guilt. It means he has a sense of morals. A code in which to protect. Others in which to protect.

Others? There are others? Yes. There are. There are others. There are others that he feels these things for. He loves them. Above all else, he loves them.

Yet, is he not alone? No. He can't be. He knows this as a fact. A natural law. He's not alone. He was never alone. There were always others. Except, he still _feels_ alone. Is that why he's hurting? Is that what's missing?

Suddenly, he feels warmth. He feels... love. He feels _loved_. It's beautiful, intoxicating. It feels so stable. It feels so sure. So confident. He feels happiness. Like his heart, it's another reminder. A reminder that he can reach out and touch. It's warm, smooth, soft.

The pain before comes back ten fold. His eyes sting again. He can hear the sob. He knows why he feels like this. It's because, somewhere, unconsciously, deep, he knows what's happening. He knows what's going to happen.

She smiles.

o0o

Six's eyes barely creek open, looking into a harsh, white light. His eyes adjust to the light and he can see. It's a room, mostly white. Providence. He's in Providence.

There are voices, like echoes miles away. They aren't talking to him.

He's laying down. On a table. There's something wrapped across his chest.

Screaming. He knows this voice. It's familiar. Young. Restless. Iritating. He feels pride and love for the owner of this voice. Why is Rex screaming? It's still not to him.

Slowly, Six blinks against the lights and the air. The world is misshapen. Wobbly, almost.

He can't make out the words, not that he's trying, but Rex's screaming gains his attention again. He sounds angry. Horrified. Other voices. Arguing. Someone is holding him back. Keeping him away. _Trying_ to keep him away.

It tugs on something in his mind. Something he knows. Something. The bloody cloth across his chest... The intentional wound... The boy's screams... There's something. There's something.

Of it's own violition, his head slowly turns on the table to look beside him. He feels as if he's under water. The distant sounds, the strange distortions.

Then, he no longer exists, for he stops thinking.

Almost every morning, she would run late and curse him. He never cared. He always thought she was so beautiful when she was asleep. It was a running habit. Something he loved. Something he looked forward to. When she would wake up, she was even more beautiful when she was angry. It was that fire that he loved.

Something thick was dripping onto the floor, like the second hand of a clock.

He loved every single aspect of her. He could probably write a book on every bone in her body. Every hair on her head. The hands would take some time, though. They were gentle, warm, firm, fragile, delicate, strong.

He was going to put a ring on that hand one day.

Someone moved the hand, laying it across her stomach.

His eyes widened. There was another voice. It screamed from somewhere behind, across, in front of him. He didn't recognize it. Something touched him. His shoulders. Something was putting pressure on his shoulders, on his chest. One of them grabbed his arm, trying to move it away from where it reached.

_I told you not to think about it_.

They zip the bag over her glass eyes.

**o0o**

**Well, I still apparently got it. Geez, Lina. Everytime you write something from the top of your head, it's either the most hilarious thing ever or... **_**this**_**.**

**... So, anyway, I think you know what happened here. FYI, the impact of the fic'll get you if you read it over again, since you know what's going on. Also, Six was injured, because he tried to save her... Just let that sink in. And, yes, it is quite short. Sorry.**

**Once I realized the direction this was headed, I teared up. I love vague fics like this. It's so epic and delicious. I think this happened, **_**especially**_** that beginning thing, because I just finished reading the book **_**1984**_** by George Orwell the other day. I recommend it. Good, horrifying read.**

**Now I can say I killed them both. Yay... Hollow victory is hollow.**

**Read and Review**


End file.
